


my gods look like you (tell me why that's wrong)

by nosecoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ABC Puns, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comedy, Description of Injuries, Fluff, Getting Together, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Romance, Slice of Life, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 22:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: It's all about the lead up, everything always is. That's why he's so good at drinking.Drinking is always a lead up to being drunk, and being drunk is always a lead up to being hungover, and sometimes the unexpected stomach pump, if he goes too overboard.It's why he's sobadatrelationships.(Enjolras comes to Grantaire after a protest goes wrong and they try to be okay)





	my gods look like you (tell me why that's wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "1950" by King Princess

It's all about the hunt. Truly. If he's not longing for something, longing for it _painfully_ , if it doesn't take up his mind every hour he's awake, if he doesn't stare, if he doesn't get breathless - what's the point?

It's all about the lead up, everything always is. That's why he's so good at drinking.

Drinking is always a lead up to being drunk, and being drunk is always a lead up to being hungover, and sometimes the unexpected stomach pump, if he goes too overboard.

It's why he's so _bad_ at _relationships_.

He wants - _god_ , he wants. He's so good at _that_. He's so good at wishing and hoping and dreaming about somebody - so much he forgets to drink - but once he's got them, he's lost. What to do, now that there's nothing more he wants from them?

And, _god_ , doesn't he feel awful thinking _that_? He feels awful. He feels broken.

More drinking, then, more nursing his wounds after another messy breakup.

Grantaire really needs to get his shit together, he knows. He really needs to figure all this out, stop drinking, stop hunting, lay down his arms and surrender - talk to somebody about how he's feeling.

But, after all, he is a coward, so how likely is he to do that?

~

Enjolras makes a pretty change.

Grantaire retreated from his hunting ways, he retreated into himself, into his bedroom with a semi-regularly locked door and bottles of different booze, depending on his mood. He tries to force himself to be better, to be less the person he's moulded himself into, and he stalks from his room to the kitchen for a moment-

"R!" He freezes, Joly's voice breaking his reverie. "Hey, come over here, there's someone I want you to meet!"

He turns, slowly, on his heel, and is met by the stare of a blue eyed, blonde haired, thin lipped angel.

Okay, maybe not an angel, but definitely carved out of some kind of marble. Grantaire gives a small, awkward wave, wondering how he must look to them, and then shoving that thought aside.

Joly grins. "This is Enjolras, he's the head of the campus social justice group - ABC.” Right. The ABC (Anal Bird Coalition?). The club Joly joined two weeks into the new semester. Grantaire remembers that vividly. “Remember? I was talking about it, the other night, at dinner?"

"Yeah," Grantaire agrees, for lack of anything better to say. Enjolras - the marble statue or maybe an angel - stares at him, curiously. "Uh, hi. I'm Grantaire."

"Delighted." Enjolras says, even though his tone suggests that delighted is a choice word, and not one that matches his mood. He grimaces. He has _dimples_.

"I'm sure," he nods at Enjolras and then proceeds to the kitchen and the pop tarts calling his name.

And after that he can't get him off his mind.

~

To his mild chagrin, and absolute (secret) delight, Enjolras is a common visitor, after that. Considering Joly barely lives here, himself, the amount of time the two of them, often accompanied by other members of the ABC (Absolute Batshit Cashmere?), spend in the apartment really drives Grantaire up the wall. How is he supposed to reread _The Iliad_ for the sixth time if they're debating loudly on the other side of the wall? How is he supposed to shrink into his self-deprecating depression when every second there's a new person asking if his bedroom is the bathroom?

How is Grantaire supposed to suppress his awful hunting ways if Enjolras keeps poking his head in to ask if he needs some coffee or tea, as if Grantaire couldn't drag himself out of bed for that, as if this isn't Grantaire's house, _dick_.

And, yeah, maybe he does live for those moments, when Enjolras asks if one sugar’s okay, or if Grantaire needs two, but that's not anyone's business but his own, right?

And, yeah, it's awkward when Grantaire pushes past him in the kitchen, going for the pop tarts, while Enjolras is serving up plates of Musichetta's newest sweet culinary creation.

And, _yeah_ , maybe he wants Enjolras to be the one he longs for, from afar and near. He wants Enjolras to be the one he wakes up thinking about, who takes up every waking minute of Grantaire's day, who catches his eye across a room and dares Grantaire to be the first to look away, who bumps into him in the hallway and blushes at the momentary touch between them.

Grantaire groans and mashes his face into his pillow. Damn Joly for having such attractive, caring friends.

~

“Hey, Jean.” Grantaire leans over the couch where Joly’s friend is sleeping. Jean stirs soon after Grantaire’s greeting, and stares up at him, bewildered and half-asleep.

“Hullo, R.” He replies, voice rough with sleep. Grantaire doesn't know why he stayed over, but the shoulder seam in his yellow shirt has left a cushion scar on his cheek, indented in pink against his pale skin. “What time is it?”

“Near six, I think.” Grantaire replies, matter-of-factly. Jean frowns at this, so Grantaire continues on to what he woke Jean up for. “I just wanted to ask you, what influences your poetry?”

“All sorts of things, I suppose.” Jean says, and leans back on his pillow, arching his back to get into a better position. “I search for the things I find beautiful in life, and I try to focus all my attention on them, finding every last piece of what's good about it, and I write about that.”

Grantaire nods as he speaks, and once Jean is finished, he says, “Thanks,” and turns on his heel to retreat back to his bedroom.

“Why?” Calls Jean, leaning over the back of the couch, staring at Grantaire with a dazed, quizzical look in his eyes.

“Why _what_?” Grantaire questions in return.

Jean waves his hands helplessly, gesticulating around him. “Why did you want to know?” He clarifies.

It's a good question, and for that reason Grantaire resents this moment. He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs, uncomfortably. “I'm a naturally nosy person, I guess.” He replies, and walks backwards into his door. “I was going to ask you earlier, and forgot. I woke up remembering.”

This seems to satisfy Jean, because he salutes Grantaire, and then drops back onto the couch. Grantaire retreats under the covers of his bed, drawing the curtains tight, so that the watered down morning light can't sleep in.

~

Enjolras and the rest of the ABC (Angry Bear Catastrophe?) come round more and more often as they prepare for a protest that Grantaire has no interest in. They design flyers and signs, put dates in the calendars on their phones, and post about it on their social media.

Suddenly, it's all he can see on his Instagram, when he's scrolling through, trying to find those calming cake decorating videos he likes so much. It's annoying, he supposes, because he couldn't be less interested in what they're doing, but he doesn't say that to them. He likes the post and scrolls on. He's not interested, but that doesn't mean he can't be supportive.

He bumps into Enjolras coming out of the bathroom one night, looking disheveled and sleep deprived, dressed in a red hoodie, his curls pinned back from his face with green clips that he suspects were lent to him by Musichetta, as he's seen them in her hair before. “Sorry,” he mutters, passing by, but stops, abruptly, at the hand on his wrist.

“Joly says you're an artist.” Enjolras says, quietly. Grantaire twists to look at him. “Why didn't you say?”

“Why would I have?” Grantaire asks in kind. He watches Enjolras bite his lip, and makes himself look away when he realises he's staring. He can't help himself, really. He has _dimples_ , what's Grantaire supposed to do, _ignore_ them?

“You could've helped us design some posters, or something.” Enjolras says this like Grantaire had been even remotely interested in the first place, but he doesn't want Enjolras to stop looking at him like that, so instead of scoffing and telling him to fuck off, he says,

“Maybe next time, yeah, Apollo?”

Enjolras purses his lips. “I-”

“Enjolras?” That's Marius, and he sounds uneasy, and Enjolras goes a bit pale.

“I need to go.” He says, and practically sprints into the living room. At this point, Grantaire is well aware Marius is notorious at accidentally making things go wrong, so he doesn't yell that there's no running in the house, implemented after they moved in, and Bossuet rode a skateboard into a wall.

Still, he doesn't forget the warmth of Enjolras’s hand on his wrist, and the almost disappointed look in his eyes when he said he would've wanted Grantaire to help.

He doesn't think about what that disappointment means.

~

Grantaire’s on his feet when the knocking begins, and his hand is on the handle by the time it finishes. He was only half-asleep on the couch, before that, on edge, waiting, staring at the muted TV screen in horror and outrage and a little tiny bit of guilt.

Maybe more than a little tiny bit, actually.

Between looking at the TV and looking at the clock on his microwave, he also glanced down at his phone, waiting for it to ring or buzz or do _anything_ that meant there wasn't just radio silence, something that meant Enjolras wasn't-

He rips the door open and stands there, staring. Grantaire’s seen Enjolras in many states of disrepair - the most common being sleep deprived, stressing the night before exams, or preparing for an event, stressing about the schedule, stressing about the flyers, stressing in general.

This is an entirely new version, one Grantaire’s never had the chance to see - nor ever wanted to - and it makes his blood run cold.

Enjolras shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking pained. For good reason; his hair is caked in blood, bruises blooming by the corner of his mouth and high on his cheekbones, blood splattered over his face and down his neck. There are other, unseen, injuries that Grantaire doesn't have time to assess in the doorway.

“I saw the protest on the news.” He says, instead of _oh my god, what happened to you_. He already knows what happened.

At this, Enjolras frowns, shifting his weight, once again. “You don't watch the news.” He says, instead of _please let me in_. He already knows Grantaire will.

“I was watching _Doctor Who_ reruns, and it came up in the ad break.” Grantaire admits, still feeling uncharacteristically calm. Most of the time this would be when he was panicking, shouting, drunk. But he's sober, and he's standing, calmly, in the doorway, staring at the boy he's been trying not to love for almost a year. “They started reporting on it when it got violent.”

“Right.” Enjolras nods, and swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. His hands are shaking.

Grantaire feels himself step out of the doorway, holding the space open for Enjolras to enter. He almost limps inside, Grantaire hides his wince. “Where are the others?” He asks, softly.

“I don't know.” There's a rawness to Enjolras’s tone when he says this, an edge of fear that makes something plummet in Grantaire’s stomach.

“I thought you'd been arrested or trampled or killed or something.” He says before he can think about whether he should say it. “You didn't answer my texts.”

“I was kinda busy trying not to get ID’d.” Enjolras explains, leaning on the arm of the couch and closing his eyes, a heavy exhale following this, as if he's relieved to be resting. “Or arrested. Or trampled, as you say.”

“You could have texted me a thumbs up emoji, though.” He means this to be a joke, a way to lighten the mood, to cut the tension in the room, but Enjolras doesn't take it that way. His nostrils flare, and the look in his eyes when they open is so hostile Grantaire nearly takes a step back.

“Sorry, next time I get beat up at a protest, I'll be sure to text you a thumbs up emoji so you don't break open the Ben and Jerry’s in my memory.” He hisses.

Grantaire holds his hands up in surrender. “Excuse me for worrying.” He mumbles, turning away from the bloodied man in front of him.

Enjolras makes a pained noise and then limp his way across the room, into the kitchen. “I'll only be here a minute.” He says, going over to the sink and running water over his hand. He wipes his face with it and breathes in, deeply.

“Why?” Grantaire can't help but ask, stepping closer.

“I've got to go home.” Enjolras explains, his tone implying that this is obvious.

“Like _that_?” Another hostile glare.

“How would you _like_ me to go home?” He snaps, raising his hands and then letting them slap against his thighs in a helpless action.

“Probably less beaten up? Maybe in less bloody clothes?” Grantaire pauses, watching blood run slowly from Enjolras’s nose. It's bruising. Enjolras wipes at the blood with the side of his palm. “Maybe not alone?”

“Are you suggesting I stay here?” He says it like it's out of the question, like he would never. Like he can't believe Grantaire suggested it at all.

Grantaire goes red and says, “I'm suggesting you wait for a _fucking second_ before you go out in the cold, again.”

“I can look after myself.” Enjolras tells him, flatly.

“I never said you _couldn't_. I'm asking you to let me, just for a minute, just…” They pause, at a stalemate, caught between angry and sympathetic. Grantaire drops the anger, looking at Enjolras with a plea on his face. “Let me look after you.” At this, Enjolras’s mouth snaps shut, and he lets Grantaire lead him into the bathroom. He looks away when he catches sight of his reflection, and Grantaire winces, sympathetically. He wouldn't have had time to check himself out, post-beating, would he?

“Why do you care?” Enjolras asks, softly, when Grantaire's walked over to the heat lamp switch, flicking it on.

“Have you looked at yourself?” Grantaire replies, and turns. Enjolras is staring at his shoes.

“I know, I look terrible right now.” He murmurs.

Grantaire doesn't let this get to his head. “Sit down, for god's sake.” He sits Enjolras down on the edge of the bath and then leans past him, beginning to run it. When the plug’s in place and the waters growing steadily warmer, he leans back to find Enjolras staring at him. Without his permission, words escape his lips, “What were you _thinking_?”

Enjolras looks minorly alarmed. “What do you mean?” He asks. Grantaire bites his lip and dips his hand back in the water, stirring the warmth in.

“I mean, I saw you on the news. I saw you _fighting_ them.” He blanches in response to this proclamation, looking guilty and panicked. Nevertheless, Grantaire continues, looking back down at the water. “What were you thinking? Why did you _stay_? Why didn't you _run_? They were going to hurt you worse.”

“They didn't.” Enjolras says, quietly.

“But they _could've_.” He insists, trying to keep himself steady, eyes on the water, not on the boy next to him who'd been through hell, who'd endangered himself- “They were _going to_ -”

Enjolras must shake his head, Grantaire thinks he sees it in his reflection. “I wouldn't let them-”

“But you _did_ -!” Grantaire finally relents, and looks up, but Enjolras doesn't look mad, just exasperated and desperate.

“And then I ran!” He says, and his hands come up to cup Grantaire’s face, as of this action may help him understand his reasoning. “Grantaire, I was trying to _distract_ them - the others - Joly, Combeferre, they needed to get away - I wasn't just going to let them hurt my friends - they're my priority.”

“They could've _killed_ you, Enjolras.” Grantaire almost shouts, ripping Enjolras’s hands from his face, tender as they may have been. Enjolras’s expression closes off at this action. “If it had gotten to that, they would've. You-” He shudders. “I was scared they were going to _kill_ you.”

“You were scared for me?” He can't even look at him, his voice is so soft, so small, he couldn't bear it, whatever look is in his eyes.

“Of _course_ , I was.” Grantaire laughs, but it's hollow. “Why do you think I had that look on my face when I opened the door. Why do you think I texted you fifty times after I saw you on TV?”

“My phone got smashed.” He says, sheepishly.

“Fuck.” He swears, and gets to his feet. “Do the others know where you are?”

“No.” Enjolras shakes his head, and Grantaire tries not to look too hard at the fresh blood still matting his hair.

“I'll call Courfeyrac once I've got you settled.” Grantaire promises him, helping him to his feet so they can get Enjolras’s clothes off of him.

“Can you do it now?” Enjolras asks.

“ _No_ , just wait. Let me look at how badly they got you.” Enjolras leans on the vanity while Grantaire peels back layers of coats, uncovering scratches and scrapes and bruises. There's bloodied and chafed rings around Enjolras’s wrists. They tried to handcuff him. Makes sense. His knuckles are raw and cracked. He must have punched them.

His clothes end in a pile of the floor, and Enjolras slumps there, curling in on his injuries, stark against his pale skin. Grantaire swallows against the lump in his throat. He doesn't know how to make this better. He needs a drink, but he won't when Enjolras needs him to help him through this.

He gets a washcloth from his tiny linen closet and wets it, gently pressing it to Enjolras’s cuts and scrapes, getting rid of the smears of blood. Enjolras grits his teeth and grips the lip of the vanity so hard his knuckles go white. There's some large scrapes on his knees, obviously where he was pushed to the ground by the crowds of running people, and then the police when they tried to arrest him. Enjolras has to kick off his shoes and undo his belt before his newly ripped jeans come off.

They look worse in this light, but Grantaire can't count on the bath water cleaning them better than he can. By the time he's finished cleaning Enjolras up, the bath’s ready and he leaves Enjolras to that, going to the kitchen, searching for a reason to stay away. He makes some coffees, remembering the way Enjolras likes it, since he's around so often, and bringing them in with his phone so he can call Courfeyrac.

Enjolras is sitting in the bath, staring at the still surface if the water. His skin is flushed with the heat of it, and his knees poke up out of the water, arms wrapped, protectively, around his shins. He's not moving, just sinking further and further in shock, apparently. Grantaire sets down the coffees on the vanity and pulls out his phone, pulling up Courfeyrac’s contact.

Courfeyrac picks up after the third ring. “Grantaire? What’s - have you seen anything?” There are people talking in the background, Grantaire thinks he can hear Cosette. “Do you know what happened?”

“Yeah, yeah, Courf, I saw it on the TV.” He runs a hand through his hair, willing the images he saw to go away, to stop flashing behind his eyes. “That looked bad, dude. Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine. We’re at Marius’s place.” Courfeyrac replies, but then his voice breaks, when he continues, “But, we can't find _Enjolras_. His phone just goes right to voicemail. We lost him in the crowd. We had to get Joly out of there, and we thought he was getting arrested.”

“He’s with me.” Grantaire says, quickly, not wanting to hear Courfeyrac cry on the other end of the line.

“What?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire can't tell if it's from confusion, or if it's just a conversation filler.

“He showed up at my place.” He continues, and looks down at the boy in his bathtub. Undoubtedly, Courfeyrac would know how to help with this, but Grantaire almost feels it to be his mission to do this on his own. “He's pretty shaken up, and he's not looking very good, either, but I'm taking care of him.”

“Oh thank god.” Courfeyrac breathes, and the voices in the background fade, so Grantaire assumes he's left the room that everyone else is in. He's never been to Marius’s place, but it must be huge. “Jehan thought they'd taken him in.”

“No, he's here.” Enjolras hasn't looked up, hasn't moved. Grantaire worries. If he's not even registering Grantaire clearly talking to one of the friends he had stayed behind to protect, what will he register. He almost wants to lock the front door and keep him here until he comes back to himself, so Enjolras doesn't have to let anyone else see him this way. He compromises in a way, a selfish kind of way. “I can keep him here for the night and you guys can come and get him in the morning.”

“Can I talk to him?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire just knows he's been wanting to ask since he told him Enjolras was there.

“Yeah, hold on.” Grantaire kneels by the bath and reaches out, cautiously. “Enjolras?”

He touches his shoulder. It's warm beneath his fingers. “Yes?” He doesn't even blink. He's still staring at the water.

“Courf wants to talk to you.” At this, he does blink, he inclines his head towards Grantaire, disturbing the water, making it ripple. His gaze is empty.

“Courfeyrac?” Grantaire hits the speaker button, in time to hear Courfeyrac reply, “I'm here. Oh, god, I was terrified. I thought they'd hurt you.”

“They did.” Grantaire intones.

“They couldn't keep me down.” Enjolras says, with fake humour in his voice. His lips quirk up for a second, but he must realise Courfeyrac can't see him because it drops quickly, again. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was okay, sooner.”

“I'm just happy you're alive, dude, and not calling me from the police station.” Grantaire hears the honesty in Courfeyrac’s voice, and feels as though he's invading in someone's private conversation. He knows as well as anyone how long Enjolras and Courfeyrac have known each other, and if that's any indication, Grantaire can see how terrified Courfeyrac must have been. “Everyone will be relieved.”

“Are you all okay?” Enjolras asks, softly, and there's an edge of something in his voice, concern and a painful sliver of desperation. Grantaire knows he'd rather be there taking care of the group, then here, alone, with Grantaire.

“Everyone’s fine, we’re all fine.” Courfeyrac assures him, quickly. “Jehan got a bit panicked, and Joly’s knee acted up while we were running away, but other than that we’re fine.”

“I was worried.” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire looks away, wanting Enjolras to know he's not intending to intrude on the conversation.

“Just worry about yourself, okay? We’ll come and get you tomorrow morning, yeah?” Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but then Courfeyrac adds, “Grantaire’s gonna take care of you.”

Their eyes meet. His eyes aren't as empty as they were before, there’s something there. Enjolras doesn't look away when he says, “Yeah.”

“Okay.” There's so much relief in Courfeyrac’s voice that Grantaire nearly winces. Intense emotions like that, especially when he doesn't feel like he should be hearing them, make him feel uncomfortable. “Cool. Love you, Enj.”

“Yeah, love you.” He hangs up, and Grantaire puts the phone on the vanity, not taking his eyes off Enjolras. He's never seen him like this. Frozen and catatonic, looking like he's been left behind in the cold.

“You need to wash your hair.” Grantaire says, softly, for something to say, a reason to move, a reason to make an attempt at breaking through Enjolras’s stupor.

“Do I?” Enjolras asks, not looking like he cares one bit.

“Yeah.” He replies. “There's blood in it.”

“Is there?” He reaches up and his fingers come away red. His eyes widen fractionally at this, and he lets his hand drop back into the water, the blood flowing away, all pink. “Oh.”

“I'm gonna help you out, yeah?” His next exhale comes out shakily, and Grantaire curses himself for caring so much. He can't let on how much this state Enjolras is in is scaring him. “Are you okay with me touching you?”

“I-” he cuts off, his chest shuddering and Grantaire watches him closely. “Yes.”

Grantaire gets to his feet and takes off his sleep pants, climbing in behind Enjolras, perching on the back of the bath, shampoo in hand. “We need to wet it first.”

There's a long pause as Grantaire worries over how to do that, and then Enjolras dunks himself under the water, blood tinting the water pink. He resurfaces quickly, gasps for air coming out like sobs, and Grantaire doesn't know how to help him. He doesn't know if he can make this better, if Enjolras would even let him if he knew how.

He cautiously runs a hand through his hair, and then, when Enjolras doesn't pull away or freeze, he reaches into the water and takes a hold of his hand. “You're okay,” he murmurs, feeling Enjolras squeeze his hand. “It's okay.”

Eventually, once Enjolras has control over his breathing again, he gets to washing Enjolras’s hair, and by the time they're washing the conditioner out, there's no blood to be seen. Grantaire leaves Enjolras to dry himself, explaining that he's going to get clothes for Enjolras to sleep in and leans against the closed door, once he's left the bathroom.

So much of him is screaming that he can't do this himself, that he needs to let someone else help him carry the weight of this, that it's too much for him. If he keeps being strong for Enjolras, he's going to lose it, too, and he's not injured at all. Grantaire doesn't know how to rationalise these feelings on his head, so he sinks down the wall and puts his face in his hands, trying to breathe evenly.

Why does it hurt him that Enjolras got hurt? Why does he care so much? He barely knows him, but in a way he knows him better than anyone, knows the spark in his eye when he talks about something he's passionate about, knows how he looks when he thinks something is funny, but doesn't want to let on, knows how heated he gets about doing what's right.

Maybe Grantaire is just scared because the spark of passion in Enjolras’s eyes isn't there.

He wills himself off the floor and rummages through his chest of drawers until he finds clothes that could conceivably fit Enjolras. He passes them through a crack in the door and waits outside the bathroom while he dresses. He wonders whether it hurts because everything beautiful about Enjolras was so faded when he was staring, still, in the water, the loud mouthed leader disappeared in his doorway, that night.

He wonders if the moment the handcuffs closed around his wrists if Enjolras lost his fight.

The door opens and Enjolras steps out, looking better than when he arrived, but still pretty worse for wear. Thankfully, he doesn't look as empty as before. Grantaire lets himself breathe, again. He tries not to let it show on his face, but some of the creases on Enjolras’s smooth out, so he probably fails.

“Do you want to sleep?” He asks, quietly, noting to himself that there's no reason why they should be standing so close.

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I...I don't think I can, right now.”

“Okay. Do you wanna watch something? I think I still have _Doctor Who_ reruns to watch.”

“Yeah, okay.” They get settled on the couch, a good few centimetres between them, and they argue about which season to watch. Grantaire’s just glad they can pretend they feel normal, right now, instead of he awful silence in the bathroom, instead of the smile that dropped when Enjolras remembered Courfeyrac couldn't see him.

Halfway through an episode, they're quiet and focused, when Grantaire finally speaks, “You know that you should be your priority, right?”

“What?” Enjolras murmurs, not looking away from the screen.

“You said the others were your priority, earlier.” Grantaire says, and looks away when he sees Enjolras turns to look at him. “I just wanted to tell you that you should be your own top priority. If helping your friends means a beating for you, you should look at other options.”

“There _were_ no other options.” Enjolras replies, stiffly. “It was run and leave them to fend for themselves, or be who they needed me to be, that minute. They needed me to help them get out of there, and I don't care how bad I look, it was worth it.”

“It wouldn't be worth it if they'd killed you.” He says.

“You're wrong.” Enjolras immediately replies.

“I know _you_ think that.” Silence follows. Maybe he's gotten through to him. Maybe he's too tired to argue - it seems absurd, knowing Enjolras likes to have the last word in every argument, will want the last word at his own funeral probably, but that could be the truth. Grantaire sighs, shifting. “I just think you should have more self preservation instincts.”

They don't speak again, but by the end of the episode Enjolras has closed his eyes, almost asleep, and Grantaire turns down the volume on the TV, not wanting sound effects in the next episode to wake Enjolras. His chin is rested on his chest. Grantaire reaches out and slowly pulls Enjolras down to rest his head in his lap. Enjolras doesn't stir.

Grantaire rests his own head in his hand, elbow placed on the arm of the couch, and watches the next episode with his free hand stroking back Enjolras’s damp curls.

~

He wakes to more knocking. He's slumped against the arm of the couch, his arm folded underneath his head, and Enjolras is lying stretched across the couch, his head in Grantaire’s lap. His phone buzzes, on the floor, and Grantaire shifts carefully to pick it up, trying hard to not jostle Enjolras.

There's a message from Combeferre there. _Am here, you awake? Here to pick up Enj._

Grantaire texts back, _come in,, doors unlocked be quiet hes asleep._

The door quietly opens and Courfeyrac and Combeferre slink in. They stifle their giggles when they see Grantaire trapped by Enjolras’s hold on his legs, but then stop short when they see his bruised face.

“Oh, he looks bad.” Combeferre whispers, kneeling by the couch. He looks up at Courfeyrac with an accusatory look on his face. “You didn't tell me he was this bad.”

“I didn't know how hurt he was, you can't pin this all on me.” Courfeyrac hisses back, pushing Combeferre out of the way, and kneeling by Enjolras’s head. He reaches out, a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, and shakes him, gently. “Hey, we’re here to take you home.”

“Courf?” Enjolras rasps, shifting to sit up from Grantaire’s lap. He looks from Courfeyrac to Combeferre, and then to Grantaire, and goes pink when he realises he slept in Grantaire’s lap. Grantaire still thinks he's beautiful, like this, with dark bruises on his face, in bad light, looking embarrassed. He's just as beautiful as when he's fighting for what he believes in, passion rolling off him in waves. This is just a different kind of beauty, a sleepy, rarely seen kind, a private kind, a precious kind. Grantaire wishes Enjolras hadn't needed to be beaten up for it to be seen by the human eye.

Enjolras clears his throat, looking away. “Home…”

“Yeah, home.” Combeferre agrees, getting to his feet, and nudging Courfeyrac with a knee. “The car’s parked by a hydrant, downstairs, so we should make this quick.”

Enjolras gets unsteadily to his feet, and Grantaire grabs the plastic bag he'd shoved his bloody clothes in, last night, handing it to Courfeyrac, who's supporting Enjolras with his arm slung over his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac murmurs on their way out the door.

Grantaire only nods. “Any time.”

And, with that, he's left alone, once again. Naturally.

~

Joly comes home at two in the afternoon, that day, and Grantaire’s just finished meticulously cleaning. Joly looks a bit worse for wear, and Musichetta’s guiding him by the elbow, and they both stop short in the entryway when they see Grantaire packing up the vacuum cleaner.

All the windows are open to air out the place, clutter put away and papers stacked on the side table, doors open to display their tidy spaces, all vacuumed and dusted, the kitchen mopped and wiped down. Grantaire looks between the two of them awkwardly.

“Welcome home, I guess?” He asks, shrugging.

“There a reason you went all housewife-on-cocaine?” Bossuet asks, appearing behind his partners, taking off his jacket.

“Needed something to do.” Grantaire supplies. “Needed to distract myself.”

“You and me both.” Musichetta says, sitting Joly down in the couch, a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and strides into the kitchen. “We need cookies, I think. All of us. The ABC. We need cookies. Bossuet?”

She and Bossuet get to work making a mess of his newly cleaned kitchen, but Grantaire doesn't mind, because they feed him cookie dough while the dozens of trays of cookies bake. They all watch _Adventure Time_ on the TV, and order takeout, and they don't burn the cookies, because Bossuet set three timers. And by the time their dinner is gone and the cookies have cooled, they've shut the windows and wrap themselves up in jackets to face the autumn chill outside, set on delivering the cookies to their friend's.

“I'll stay.” Grantaire says, waving them off, giving them an out for having a fourth wheel on this expedition. Joly won't have any of it.

“You need to get out.” He insists, grabbing one of Grantaire’s discarded coats from the coat rack in the entryway. “Come with us, I'm sure Combeferre will feed you some wine for your troubles.”

They plead with their eyes, and eventually Grantaire caves, putting on the jacket and climbing into the backseat of Bossuet’s huge minivan. (He's never asked why Bossuet has a minivan, and he never will.)

They drive to Marius’s first, where a majority of the ABC (Ab Blasting Central?) is still gathered. The man of the house is making noodle soup to feed an army in the kitchen while Cosette and Éponine sit at the island bench and tease him. Bahorel and Feuilly are sitting on the ground, on either sides of the coffee table, playing a very tense game of Scrabble. Jehan is sitting on the couch, typing something on his laptop, a toothpick between his teeth, eyes narrowed at the screen.

“We’ve brought cookies.” Musichetta announces upon their entrance and everyone’s heads whip up. Most of them, apart from Marius and Cosette who are manning the pots of noodle soup, come up to greet them and grab a few cookies.

Jehan confusingly comes up and kisses Grantaire on the cheek before taking his share with a smile and returning to his laptop. Feuilly claps him on the shoulder, and Bahorel follows suit. Grantaire looks to Joly for guidance, but he's already in the kitchen, chatting with Cosette and Marius.

“What was that?” He finds himself asking Bossuet, who's the only one left of the trio by the door with him, as Musichetta is setting up a game of Connect Four with Éponine.

Bossuet shrugs. “We all know what you did for Enjolras. We’re glad you didn't let him go home when he was hurt like that. Courfeyrac says if the bruising is any indication, he looked pretty battered when he turned up.”

“Oh.” Grantaire says, for lack of anything better to say. Yes, that was right, wasn't it? Hadn't Courfeyrac said, last night on the phone, that Jehan was painicked?

“We’re all thankful you took care of him.” Bossuet murmurs, and puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “It wasn't your responsibility to do it, but you did it anyway.”

Bossuet converses with his partners and decides that he and Grantaire will drive to Combeferre’s, give them cookies, and then come back for noodle soup with the rest of the ABC. Grantaire sits in the passenger seat with two Tupperware containers specifically not dreading to see Enjolras again. It wasn't that long ago since he got taken home, but it still feels like so long ago.

“And shocking new footage emerges of last night's student protest gone wrong, depicting a young man beaten by the police and handcuffed, before fleeing on his own.” Says a news speaker on the radio, and they both freeze up, thankfully stopped at some traffic lights. “Police have yet to give statement on the footage that was anonymously delivered to local news stations, but we have some audio to play.”

Suddenly the car is filled with Enjolras’s voice. “Stop, stop, don't hurt them! They didn't do anything-!”

“You have the right to remain silent-”

“Why are you arresting me? What have I done?”

“-anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law-”

“I haven't done anything wrong! You beat me!”

“-you have the right to an attorney-”

“Don't chase after them! They haven't done anything! PLEASE, LISTEN TO ME, THEY HAVEN'T DONE _ANYTHING_ -”

The broadcast finishes and Grantaire switches the station to some jazz. The light goes green. Bossuet is still stiff in his seat, but he presses down on the accelerator anyhow. Two blocks away Grantaire sucks in a sharp breath. “Pull over.”

Bossuet doesn't question it, and when Grantaire’s crouched on the edge of a ditch, retching, his hand is on his back, murmuring soft words that Grantaire thinks might be _it’s alright_ , but can't be sure. It's all over very quickly after that, and soon after they're sitting in the car again, someone going hard on the saxophone on the radio.

They don't start driving. Bossuet’s hands are on the wheel, and he's looking straight ahead, but he doesn't start driving.

“You really care about him.” Bossuet says, and Grantaire doesn't look up.

“Well, yeah. I mean, any person with common sense wouldn't have let him go home alone, but…yeah. I do care about him, a lot, maybe more than I should.” That's not something he actually meant to admit, but it's too late to take it back now. He swallows at the lump in his throat, and continues, staring at his hands in his lap. “ _None of you_ should have had to go through all that, but did you hear him? He was so scared for you guys - he wasn't even pleading his own case, he was trying to make sure that if they _did_ drag him away you guys wouldn't be held accountable for a _scrap_ of what happened.” Deep breath. Shuddering exhale. Hands clench on his thighs. “I can't bear that he wasn't even showing how scared he was for _himself_.”

It's starting to rain, just little specks of water on the windshield, but Bossuet turns on the window wipers anyway. “From what I know,” Bossuet begins, slowly, “he was brought up to value himself above others, but somewhere along the line decided that was too selfish. I think something about that exchange went wrong, and he pushes almost everything about himself to the background to deal with later.” Grantaire looks up. Bossuet has a mildly guilty, sad look on his face. “Anything that isn't about him is infinitely more important.”

“God.” Grantaire says, and presses his hand to his forehead.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bossuet asks, and he knows he's probably just asking because Grantaire threw up on the side of the road, but his tone implies that he's asking on the whole.

“Probably.” Grantaire tells him and Bossuet hums, pulling onto the road.

~

Courfeyrac opens the door upon their arrival and ushers them in with a rueful smile.

“Ferre will be happy to see you guys.” He comments, and pushes past them through the entryway, right into the living room. Combeferre’s eating fried rice out of a takeout box, _Friends_ on TV in front of him. “I think he's still shaken up from last night.”

“How’s Enjolras?” Bossuet inquires in a low tone. Combeferre looks up, a sad look on his face.

“Quiet.” He answers, getting up from the couch. That one word is enough to send chills down Grantaire’s spine. He passes Courfeyrac the Tupperware container of cookies. “He slept most of the day.”

“Fair.” Bossuet comments, nodding.

“Is he awake now?” Grantaire asks. “Can I see him?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a look.

Enjolras looks up when Grantaire walks in. He looks half-asleep and disheveled, and all his bruises have purpled, so he looks worse than he probably is, but Grantaire still winces. His bedroom is a mess of papers and clothes and rubbish, with a nice clear path from the door to the bed.

He stares at Grantaire like he was probably expecting a pterodactyl to appear in front of him and begin an elaborate tap dancing routine more than he was expecting Grantaire to show up in his doorway, looking pale and relieved to see him. He stares at Grantaire like he's the last thing he expected.

“Hi.” Grantaire says, leaning on the door jamb. Enjolras has a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape, his hair falling in his eyes, unruly and clean, and his skin is mottled with dark bruises. How Grantaire had wished, the night before, that if he pressed hard enough with the washcloth that they'd flake away the same as the blood. There they are, anyway, battle scars, proof of his love for his friends, proof of his beliefs and determination.

“Hi.” Enjolras echoes, and something close to a smile blooms through his lips. The corners quirk up, and something blazes to life in his blue eyes. His wrists look the worst, all yellow and green, skin scraped off and leaving what's beneath raw and pink. Grantaire can't bear to look at them, as if they cause him pain just to look directly at them. “I didn't expect to see you…I thought this would be a quiet night.”

“I pride myself in being unexpected.” Grantaire replies, and then frowns at his own answer. He can still taste the bile in the back of his throat, can still hear Enjolras’s voice screaming on the radio. “I needed to know you were okay.”

Enjolras flushes pink. “I'm more than okay, you saw to that.” At this statement, Grantaire almost blushes. Enjolras is running his fingers over the bruising around his wrists, probably unconsciously. “I don't know how to thank you for everything last night.”

“You don't have to thank me. Just knowing you're okay is enough.” Grantaire tells him and ventures further into the room. Enjolras shuffles so his legs fit underneath him and there's room for Grantaire to sit on the bed. Grantaire pauses at this unspoken invitation, looking between the bed and Enjolras's open, bruised face. “I…someone anonymously sent in a video of the police beating you to a few news stations, they played an audio clip on the radio. Enjolras…”

His face darkens. “Oh.”

“I'm not here to berate you, I just-” Grantaire stops himself. This wasn't part of the plan, not that there was really any plan to begin with, more of a thought in his head that said _tell him how you feel_. “You scare me.”

And that's not what he meant to come out of his mouth, _go brain!_ Enjolras furrows his eyebrows.

“How?” He asks, and Grantaire as to admit it's a fair question, he left the statement very open for interpretation.

“You don't seem to care whether you live or die, but anything else holds a high priority.” He answers, sheepishly. “I want to know why.”

“Why I endanger myself for the good of everyone else?”

“If you like.”

Enjolras purses his lips - dimples appearing, and making something in Grantaire melt into a puddle - and replies, “If I don't who will?”

Grantaire points at him, accusingly, and says, “See, I don't think that's a good enough reason.”

“What would you like me to do?” Enjolras asks, throwing up his hands, almost a surrender, but with a bite in his tone to remind Grantaire that he's never one to surrender. _Never_.

“Take more _calculated_ risks?” Grantaire suggests. “Be selfless, sure, but let someone else be selfless for you, too.” _Let me be that person for you_ , remains unsaid, but Grantaire hears it echo around the room as if the words left his tongue anyway.

“I can't count that everything will go right if I plan for it that way.” Enjolras says, tiredly. “That's a part of what I do. I can't plan for everything to go right.”

“So plan for everything to go _wrong_.” He says, immediately. Enjolras doesn’t respond. He's staring at the hands folded in his lap.

“I can't…”

“Okay.” Grantaire knocks the side of his head into the wall and exhales hard. “I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” This is said quickly, almost desperately, attaching itself to Grantaire’s words more than it attaches to the rest of his sentence. He goes a bit red. Grantaire sees his hand halfway extended towards it, sees it when it retreats. “Um. You don't have to go. You could stay, if you want to. I don't mind. I quite like your company.”

“Surprising.” Grantaire comments, but doesn't move to leave. Enjolras smiles. Grantaire looks away before he can start staring.

~

It hits him as more of a casual fleeting observation than a full blown realisation.

He's in the middle of packing boxes, labelling them and sticking newspaper down the empty sides when his thoughts drift to Enjolras, now fully healed and on to planning his next big event with the group, three months later. His mind offers up some images of Enjolras leaning over a pizza box lined coffee table, hair pulled back with one of Cosette’s hair ties, gesturing wildly with his hands, and he thinks, _God, I love him._

And it takes Grantaire a few more moments, and a box to realise what he just admitted to himself.

Musichetta comes running in, quickly followed by Bossuet when they hear Grantaire drop his glass of wine, and find him standing in the middle of his half-packed bedroom, staring into space with a surprised look on his face.

“What's happened?” Musichetta asks, while Bossuet hurries off to get the dustpan and brush.

“I've made a very important discovery,” Grantaire tells her with a hesitant grin.

Though she asks what he means, Grantaire refuses to admit what he's realised, and soon she relents, leaving with Bossuet and a dustpan full of wine-stained glass, and lets Grantaire stew as he packs.

He's in love with Enjolras.

~

“Did you know there's a solo function on Singstar?” Grantaire asks Éponine as they walk down the street.

They've been unpacking into Grantaire’s new flat and Éponine asked who wanted bubble tea, offering to make a run. Grantaire had responded “The one with the purest cocaine in it! I want to get addicted as quickly as possible.” She had nearly smacked him up the back of the head for that, saying that some people just like how it tastes and he shouldn’t make fun of it.

Even so, he's ended up making the run with Éponine, and she talked him into getting some. He has to begrudgingly admit he's not hating it.

“Why on earth would you know that?” She replies, sipping at her bubble tea.

“I found my PS2 while unpacking and found all my Singstar games. They were all in storage since I moved out of home.” Grantaire takes another sip of his bubble tea and makes an exaggerated disgusted face at Éponine. She flips him off with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, there’s nothing better than christening my new place by singing _Build Me Up Buttercup_ at the top of my lungs in the middle of the night. My new neighbours hate me.”

“I can imagine.” Éponine agrees with a small grin. “Did you find anything else in storage?”

“Many things.” He informs her, and begins ticking things off on his fingers as he speaks. “Annotated Shakespeare plays from high school, embarrassing drawings I did from childhood and high school, and pictures of Halloween costumes I promptly burned in my sink.”

“No!” She cries in a mock-outraged voice. “I would've given _anything_ to see your crappy Dracula costume evolving through the years.”

“I take offence to that.” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes and stopping a crosswalk. “I've had more original costumes than crappy Dracula through the ages.”

“I've seen them on your mom's Facebook.” Éponine tells him with a sneaky look in her eye and a mouth full of tapioca pearls. “I just wanted to hold the time-stamped pictures in my hands.”

He places a hand against his heart and gasps exaggeratedly. “You Facebook stalked my mom?”

“Who _haven't_ I Facebook stalked is the real question.” She responds, nonchalantly. The light flashes and they cross the road, briskly. Only another block until they're back at his flat, and thank god for that, because it's started getting hotter, and Grantaire's nearly sweating through his cardigan. “Hey, what's going on with you and Enjolras?”

He chokes on a mouthful of tea and takes a minute to clear his throat before replying in a raspy voice, “What do you mean?”

“I mean you guys are all buddy-buddy these days.” She says, rolling her eyes, Grantaire thinks no one can make Éponine roll her eyes that much apart from him and Gavroche. “Are you guys fucking?”

“No.” He responds, curtly and walks faster.

“Then what's happening?” Éponine questions, catching up to him easily, despite her short legs. God _damn_ the stubbornness of the Thenardier’s. “Spill the beans or the tea or whatever.”

“There's no beans to spill.” He insists, while internally begging to spill the beans, begging to slice himself open and let all his complicated and grossly mushy feelings slide out onto the ground in front of everyone, that's what Enjolras has done to him. “You know Enjolras, he has days where he likes people and days when he doesn't. You've just only seen him on days he likes people, recently.”

“Don't think I didn't notice when you started showing up to meetings.” She says, pointing at him with an accusing finger and a playful glare. “There's something going on, and I'm gonna find out what it is, mark my words.”

~

The morning of the ABC’s (Amsterdam Bashing Contest?) next big protest, Enjolras calls him.

“Did you hear about my incredible Singstar set up and want in?” Grantaire groans in greeting, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Because I have to tell you, three in the morning isn't the best time for singing, but I'll try for you.”

There's a small pause, and Grantaire can practically hear Enjolras’s confusion through the phone, and then Enjolras says, “Will you come with me, tomorrow?”

“Huh?” He's more awake now, but that doesn't mean he quite understands what Enjolras just said.

“To the protest. You said I…” Grantaire waits for the rest of the sentence, holding his breath. Enjolras sighs, “R, I'd like you to be with me. I feel like you'll be more sensible than me if things go to shit the way they did last time.”

“You're asking me to be your keeper.” He says, slowly, and Enjolras huffs on the other end of the line. Sheets rustle and Grantaire does not think about Enjolras lying in his bed, in the dark, phone pressed between his ear and his pillow, making this call. He doesn't think about anything.

No, if you asked him, his mind goes blissfully blank.

“For the day.” Enjolras allows, obviously put out by the title keeper.

“Seriously.” Not a question, but still.

“I'll have you properly compensated.”

“I don't need compensation.” Grantaire snorts, and sits up. He wonders if Enjolras hears his sheets rustle, he wonders if Enjolras thinks for a second about Grantaire in bed, or if his mind goes blissfully blank. “Couldn't this have waited until a reasonable hour in the morning?”

“Probably.” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire bites back a laugh, a habit from living with three other people with normal sleep schedules.

“Go to sleep, Enjolras.” He says, softly.

“Will you-?” He begins, putting on his Revolutionary Speaker voice, but Grantaire already knows what he's going to say, and has little patience for Revolutionary Speeches, tonight.

“I'll be there, now sleep.” He says, and hears Enjolras huff. “You need it.”

~

This time, when everything goes to hell, Grantaire is there to drag Enjolras away.

It actually seems to all be going well, for a while there, and even Grantaire can't keep a smile off his face, but of course good things can't last, can they, because suddenly people are screaming and everyone's running in different directions and Enjolras keeps trying to pull away from Grantaire, and if he learnt anything from last time it's that he can't let him out of his sight.

So, he makes sure everyone’s safe, and then he drags Enjolras away from the chaos and into an alley while he calls an Uber. They don't talk in the alley or in the car, or on the trip up the stairs to Grantaire’s flat where Grantaire’s already told Courfeyrac they’ll be. He gets the feeling Enjolras is pissed at him, going off his expression and his stony silence, but he doesn't let it bother him until he's setting down two coffees on the coffee table and Enjolras won't take his eyes off the TV.

The news is broadcasting footage of the chaos following the protest and Enjolras’s hands are clenched on his knees so tight his knuckles are going white. Grantaire watches with some relief as the news informs them no one was injured by the sudden intervention by law enforcement, and reaches for Enjolras’s hands. Enjolras tenses up underneath his touch and Grantaire fears he’s done the wrong thing.

Then he relaxes.

 _I would've made it worse_ , he admits, later, when they've both calmed down, and they're still sitting in front of the TV, cold coffee untouched in its mugs, once again. Grantaire really needs to stop making coffee for Enjolras. They never drink it when he does.

They're okay, for a minute.

~

This time, when he wakes up on his couch, he's not leaning on his hand, he's stretched out, on his back, head pressed into one of Cosette’s lovely throw pillows, gifted to him last Christmas back when he didn't quite know her, yet. Enjolras’s head isn't rested in his lap, but instead on his chest, their legs tangled together.

Enjolras stirs into wakefulness at the same time that Grantaire does. And they stare at each other, unsure as of where to proceed to from this point. It's obvious they both want something from this moment, and while Grantaire knows himself very well, he couldn't be more lost by what Enjolras wants.

At least, this time, Enjolras’s face is clear of dark bruises, and his wrists don't bare rubbed raw evidence of imprisonment, and his eyes hold such a strong spark, unlike that Enjolras he saw sitting in his bathtub. At least, this time, Enjolras stares at him with just as much fear and uncertainty as Grantaire had, back then, when he'd only half known him.

He likes to think he knows him better than half, now.

Enough to only cut off halfway through his gasp when Enjolras raises a hand to touch his cheek, to trace the seam of his lips.

They pause there, frozen in the moment, terrified to ruin it. Grantaire can barely draw breath.

“You didn't let me get hurt.” Enjolras whispers, his bottom lip brushing the collar of Grantaire’s t-shirt.

“I'll never let you get hurt.” Grantaire whispers back, meaning every word, wondering why they're whispering. “Never again.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras says and drops his head a bit, brushing his lips, more purposefully, across the skin his shirt bares below the hollow of his neck. “R.”

“Yes?” Grantaire can't breathe. Enjolras will be the death of him, he will, Grantaire knows this. Not loneliness, not chaos at a peaceful protest, not alcohol poisoning. No, Enjolras and his soft kisses and his quiet words.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I wish you would.”

So, the fingers on his other hand graze up his neck and up his face and Enjolras comes to press his forehead to Grantaire’s just breathing him in, for a minute. When their lips do touch, for the first time, Grantaire tries not to think anything too dramatic.

He kisses Enjolras back, in kind, hoping Enjolras can feel the meaning behind this, not just that he's pleased to be kissed at all, not just that he likes it be kissed right father waking. But that he's wanted Enjolras to kiss him like he's worth loving for so long, for longer than either of them knew.

This doesn't feel at all like it used to. There's nothing predatory about how he had pursued Enjolras, nothing disappointing about having him here, in his arms, in his house, kissing him, nothing empty about the moment.

He longed for a Enjolras, painfully, breathlessly, but still, he lets Enjolras lead this moment, with nothing on his mind but how much he's wanted this, wanted him.

Perhaps, soon, he’ll tell him. But not right now, when Enjolras is kissing him like perhaps he's worth it. Grantaire allows himself to become a part of the moment instead of the lead up and the hunt, and finds he likes it much better.

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you liked this, please let me know all about that in the comments, and consider leaving me a kudos as well. Hmu on Tumblr @nose-coffee. Once again, thanks for reading!


End file.
